


To Rust Unburnished

by intentandinvention



Series: Much Abides [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Amputation, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dissociation, Gen, Internalised ableism, Politics, Post-Canon, Whaler Family Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-03-03 21:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13349454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentandinvention/pseuds/intentandinvention
Summary: When Thomas wakes after the events at Morley Square, a lot of things have changed.[Interim sequel to Much Abides, focussing on Thomas.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I strongly suggest you read the first fic in the series, Much Abides, before this - it won't make a lot of sense without it, and has major spoilers. Updates will be fairly slow because Life and also my other current fic, and this is unbeta'd so you have been warned. (Incidentally y'all have no idea how much I wanted to call this fic "Most Blameless is He" cos it's in the poem and lbr my boy did nothing wrong.)
> 
> Note: this fic involves a main character who is dealing with a new, traumatic amputation. I'm doing as much research as I can and will endeavour to handle the subject matter appropriately and sensitively, but I may well make mistakes. Please be patient with me, and if you would like to let me know if I've got something wrong, please do (preferably politely!).
> 
> "Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough  
> Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades  
> For ever and for ever when I move.  
> How dull it is to pause, to make an end,  
> To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!"  
> -Ulysses, Alfred Lord Tennyson

Thomas doesn’t quite realise he’s awake at first, not until his eyes open and he sees the ceiling, damp and sagging and familiar, with that one crack that spreads out like lightning until it touches the whitewashed wall of his Rudshore bunkroom. His head aches as if he’s been crying for hours; his left arm is worse, a breath-stealing throb at his shoulder when he tries to move. He pushes the salvaged blanket away and tries to swing his legs over the side of the bunk — only to fall painfully on his side when his left arm isn’t there to support his weight. The shock of it pierces the fog of his thoughts: horror rises in his throat as he remembers the bullet hitting his wrist, the sight of his own arm ragged and charring.

He drags himself upright, forcing his eyes down to his shoulder. The sleeve of a white shirt hangs empty from where his elbow should be. He stares, and his mind replays the sick crack of the impact, the fire spreading along his arm. His fingers are splayed in agony, he can _feel_ the flames searing his skin, but somehow the shirt doesn’t even move.

And his head’s wrong too, something shifted there, as if his mind was sketched on damp paper and then torn up and pieced together again with half the scraps missing or smudged. The Mark, he realises. He tries to focus on that quiet rough-edged corner of his head that is Daud’s arcane bond, to remember how it felt to respond to a summons, to feel the voidlight curling cold around his skin the way it did when he was first Marked.

It feels … torn. He can’t find a better word. The Mark should be gone, burned up along with his arm, but there’s some essence of it still inside him, aching in a raw counterpart to what remains of his arm. The sensation leaves him dizzied and empty, and he stares at the row of lockers opposite his bunk, trying to remember how to breathe. He suddenly wishes Cecelia was here to tell him that he’s just dreaming, that he’ll wake up and roll out of bed and go down to training, stretching out an arm marked all down its length with the swirls and stains of a secondhand connection to the Void.

Even if he’s not dreaming, how is it too much to ask for someone to be waiting for him to wake up? He’s injured, and badly, although he can feel the press of bandages around his upper — the _stump_ of his upper arm. Surely someone else should be here? Who brought him back to the House? How long has he been unconscious?

Long enough that Rudshore has gone quiet, he realises gradually. The light coming through the windows behind him is cold winter day, yet there’s no sound of footsteps on high wooden walkways, no clamour of seabirds, no thud of bodies hitting the floor as the newbies practice in the room next door.

Where’s everyone gone? Have they left him here, now that he’s unMarked and useless?

He tries to pull the blanket around him but fails to clasp his hands together. The left side of it is unmoving, his empty sleeve trailing across it like something discarded.

‘You’re not forgotten.’

Thomas startles at the words, drops what little of the blanket he’d picked up, turns to Rinaldo’s bed. The person sitting there, facing the window on the other side of the room, isn’t Rinaldo - the build’s about right, but the black hair is straighter, the voice younger, the skin paler.

‘I don’t know you,’ Thomas says slowly. His words seem to echo - he wonders if he hit his head when he fell.

‘No,’ the stranger agrees. ‘What will you do now?’

Thomas’s head buzzes. He has no idea. The House is soundless around him, as if something’s levered the soul from it, and his arm hurts enough that he can convince himself it’s still there if he doesn’t look at it. He tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling with its lightning fracture for a long time. Then he looks down at the scrubbed floorboards, something wavering in the back of his thoughts.

‘I moved out of this room when Billie left,’ he says slowly. ‘We put the injured here after the Overseers attacked. The floor was so bloody we couldn’t get it out of the wood grain, so we stopped using it, moved everyone to the ground floor training room instead.’

The stranger doesn’t reply.

Thomas levers himself carefully out of the bed, thinking through every unbalanced movement before he makes it. The too-clean floorboards are freezing cold, and the light from the window isn’t quite the right angle, but he doesn’t want to look. He’s been dressed in unfamiliar clothes; the shirt and light linen trousers don’t quite fit him. He pads around Rinaldo’s bed and sits down beside the stranger, looks down at his bare feet and the stranger’s heavy boots.

‘Am I dead, then?’ he asks finally, watching the light of the Void shiver over his toes.

The Outsider shakes his head. ‘Only unMarked, and recovering from massive blood loss after the surgery to remove your arm, so both mind and body are drifting.’

He looks sideways, and Thomas catches a glimpse of his eyes, smooth and dark like black glass. ‘You were never exactly one of mine, of course, and you’ve always had your feet so firmly planted on Dunwall’s streets that the Void was only ever a distant second best. But Daud’s mark is in your blood, and it’s dragging you through the veil, seeking something familiar.’

Thomas looks back at the rumpled bunk, the one that hasn’t been his for weeks. ‘Where am I really?’ he asks. ‘My… body, that is.’ It crosses his mind that perhaps he should be afraid, that maybe the Abbey fears the Outsider for a good reason — but he’s been Marked for a year now — he _was_ Marked for a year — and he’s not seen the Mark make the difference between a good person and a bad. Daud has always said that they make their choices and take what comes; those choices will never be the doing of the Void.

‘Kaldwin’s Bridge,’ the Outsider says, and as he speaks the crumbling whitewash and empty lockers fall away into the blue-violet Void, and another room half-builds itself around them, one wall emerging from shattered obsidian rock. A case clock looms to their right; in front of them a set of steps lead up to some kind of workshop, and Rinaldo’s old bunk is now a low camp bed. ‘Anton Sokolov has kept you here so that your care doesn’t pull him away from his work on the cure.’

‘Cure?’ Thomas asks. ‘Have they done it?’ He remembers the terror of _knowing_ — but if he’s not dead, if they bothered to remove his arm, perhaps…?

The Outsider only nods, and stands, and as he moves away the Void shakes its way into the room like some unfathomably titanic beast, all shadows and glinting jags of obsidian that tower as far up as Thomas can see. When he tears his eyes from the heights, the Outsider is gone and all that remains of Sokolov’s room is the edges, paintings hanging haphazardly on rock. The stairs have given way to shattered slabs that lead upward around a dark cliff, and Thomas understands that he’s being shown a path.

When he walks up to the first, he realises that there are gaps between them, two feet wide and dropping down into rushing blue-black dark. He clenches his left fist to transverse, aching fingers tensing.

There is, of course, no movement except that of his own body: he staggers forward, only just manages to brace himself at the brink of the rock. The edge crumbles slowly, lazily, beneath his bare toes, and fragments drift gently outwards as he throws himself back again, heart racing, right hand searching out the empty sleeve and clinging to it. He _felt_ – but of course, there’s nothing there. He’s heard about this before, of old soldiers with lost limbs complaining of aches and pains in fingers that rotted away in the dirt long ago. He’s not losing his mind. He’s _not_.

At the top of the steps, now he’s close, he can see a rush of colour. It pulses, swirls, whites out at the edges and drifts like sparks over the Void. The gap between the slabs isn’t large, nothing he’d even notice if he were running over rooftops in Dunwall (with his Mark and both hands to catch himself if he fell). It’s easily jumped; he just has to remember that if he fails, if he falls, he only has his right hand to catch himself.

His heart is in his throat for the first step. After that, it gets easier. He stops looking at the endless Void beneath his feet, fixes his attention on the solid stone instead, and before he knows it he’s standing in front of the coruscating wall of colour, and there’s an image forming inside it. Orange and pink and yellow and black, a familiar skyline bathed in evening light, and as the image forms, the light bleeds into the Void to surround him.

Sunset shivers into being over the wide expanse of the Wrenhaven; Thomas is standing suddenly on a familiar cobbled pathway, a boundary between the lapping river and the cramped row of houses he knows is behind him. He could trace every line in the cracks of their mortar, point blindfolded to each brightly-painted door. He doesn't turn. The wind is warm with fading summer, smells of tar and fishing nets and feels more real than anything else has since he woke in the Void. It’s no less empty of substance than the room in Rudshore, though: the smokestacks opposite are tall and grey, and a couple of them are still belching heavy into the orange sky. He used to draw them as dragons, blocky black scribbles whose smoke spiralled into the sky. They stopped breathing when the Plague came.

There’s a sigh behind him, young and female and frustrated, and it’s been a decade since she was that small but he‘d recognise his little sister’s voice anywhere. He freezes, jaw clenched tight.

‘Euan! You’re not paying attention! What event ended the Morley Insurrection?’ 

‘The assassination of Empress Larisa Olaskir resulted in public outrage against the Morley rebels,’ a boy’s voice replies, barely older. Thomas knows this, remembers writing it out as the words tripped from his teacher’s lips; he mouths the simple lies, and they flow like the orders from his mother’s tongue, like the coins from his father’s scales, in time with the sandy-haired boy he knows is leaning against the wall of the house behind him. He doesn't remember ever sounding that young, that certain. ‘Whilst the Empress’s death was of course tragic, it meant the Crown was finally able to raise the funds and support required to drive the rebels back to the north of Morley, where the Treaty of Fraeport was signed in 1804. The Treaty confirmed the right of the King and Queen of Morley to rule from Alba, provided they recognised the authority of the Imperial Crown; it also gave Gristol the right to barrack troops in Morley to ensure order and distribute aid to the population.’

‘Aye, aid and a hard kicking, should it be needed,’ comes ringing on the heels of the Empire’s rote learning, the Morley accent strong with derision.

Thomas can’t help it; he turns.

Father is leaning in the open doorway, his face hard and his arms soft around baby Davey. At his feet, little Gabi is squinting at the book open on her lap — and beside her is a boy who can’t be much older than eight, arms folded, angry at having his lesson interrupted.

Thomas doesn’t remember ever being that small, or that delicately slim, although he remembers being told about the white-fair hair that darkened as he grew older; mostly, he remembers the world being bigger.

‘You be careful what you listen to up there in the Academy District, Euan my boy,’ Father’s saying, and all four of them seem to be entirely unaware of the uninvited observer at the riverside.

And then Thomas’s eyes and heart ache as badly as his missing fingers, because Mother appears in the room behind Father, already in her officer’s uniform, her hands sliding around his waist. ‘That’s what we’re here for, my love,’ she tells him. ‘He’ll get the best in Dunwall learning from those blind old bats up at the Academy school, and we’ll teach him what’s real down here.’

Thomas is realising that he’d forgotten the exact tones of her voice, the sharpness at the ends of her sentences. He takes a step forward — and everything writhes away into black.

Stone and Void again, and Thomas is released: he chokes on the longing that’s risen in his throat, staggering a few tear-blinded steps before he can stop himself and use his empty sleeve and right hand to wipe his eyes. Everything before was silent, but now the Void sings dark around him, and there’s another path in front of him, leading down to the greys and golds of another chaos-painted scene.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes again to picture his parents’ faces.

Daud doesn’t talk much about the Void, but one of the few things Thomas knows is that no matter how much he tries to wake, to fling himself out of it, it never works. Still, Thomas can’t help reaching for wakefulness, for reopening eyes and Kaldwin’s Bridge and _anywhere but here_.

Nothing happens; he’s locked to the Void until it discards him, an iron filing drawn helplessly to a magnet.

So onwards, and downwards, to where curlicues of rushing light reach out and pull him in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who commented and left kudos, it's lovely to know that people are looking forward to more from the Much Abides universe! This chapter comes with warnings for socialist leanings ;)

Thomas is standing at a window, looking at a street lit orange against the winter’s early dark, and in the reflection he can see two crystal glasses with amber stripes at their bases, a weighty desk with a high-backed chair. The thick carpet is warm beneath his feet, oddly comforting despite the knowledge that it’s nothing but a creation of the Void, spun out from his memories.

‘Your application materials read well,’ old Professor Bryant is saying from behind the desk, his fingers absently curling around one of the glasses. The other will remain untouched. Thomas looks up at himself, and the adolescent sitting straight and nervous in the chair is far more familiar to him, only a few years and a change of hairstyle lacking. ‘You are aware, though, Mister Thomas, that this particular course of study is generally reserved for those children of the nobility who are expected to follow their parents into Parliament?’

‘I am, sir,’ the boy says earnestly. ‘I’m intending to apply to the Empress’s New Parliamentary Initiative.’

With the knowledge that he has now, Thomas is immensely grateful to Bryant for not laughing. The professor takes a sip of the whiskey instead, then sets the glass down on Thomas’s application papers. ‘I see. Thomas — your given name is Euan, is it not? Morleyan? Euan — the individuals who have so far been judged suitable for a Parliamentary seat through the Initiative include a shipping magnate, the banker to the Empress and one of the Academy’s foremost scholars in international matters. Might I ask what you intend to bring before the panel once you have completed your studies here?’

His younger self sits forward, and Thomas closes his eyes in secondhand — firsthand? — embarrassment. ‘I’ve lived in the Tailors’ District since I was born, sir,’ he says. ‘The member of Parliament for the District is Lord Hadford, who lives in Driscol and has visited once every six months since the Empress insisted that every MP meet their constituents at least that often. I’m sure you’re aware of Dr Fletcher’s poverty map, and his accounts of the lives of the ordinary people of Dunwall — were you aware that a full seventy percent of families in the Tailors’ District he classes as being in chronic want or worse? Most of them work at the mills on the north side. Dr Fletcher calculates that their average lifespan is decades shorter than that of the average member for Parliament because of their terrible working conditions and poor nutrition.

‘And yet despite this, sir, Lord Hadford regularly writes in the Dunwall Telegraph against the formation of unions for workers, and according to the Parliamentary records he consistently votes against any measures to aid the poor, despite the fact that he is appointed to represent their interests. He claims that they’re naturally lazy and refuse to be educated so that they can gain better jobs, when in fact families send their children to the mills rather than the schoolhouse because a day of work lost can result in a day where all go hungry.’

Thomas sees a flicker of sympathy in Bryant’s expression that he doesn’t remember from before; it morphs quickly to schooled neutrality.

‘I see you’ve thought about this a lot,’ the professor says. He sighs, then. ‘What do you expect to change about all this, Thomas?’

‘I’m not sure, Professor. But I would very much like the opportunity to find out.’

Bryant smiles. ‘Yes, well. You may well find that you need more than good intentions and statistics, Thomas, but you’ve certainly made your position and passion clear. You’ll hear from the Admissions Board before the month is out, and I wish you luck.’

The reply is cut off as the Void creeps back in, slow and pale this time. Thomas stares into the shivering violet ahead of him, wondering what it’s doing to him (with him? For him?). Other Whalers have mentioned it forming scenes from their memories, and sometimes what look like recent events, but never being pulled into a full reproduction.

There’s a slope of black rock leading upwards to his side, the pulse of another memory at the edge of it. Thomas follows it tiredly, for lack of other options. There’s little between his Academy interview and the assassination attempt on Emily that he wants to relive; the happy memories are tainted with missing faces, and too many of the others were bad enough to go through even once.

At the top of the uneven slope, the next memory is a wall of blacks smeared with streaks of flame, and Thomas suspects it says something about his life that he can’t identify the event. He lets it wind around him, and the darkness falls, shivers, and resolves itself.

A looming quarantine barrier lit by a trash fire in a long-rusted oil drum, and across the street a half-ruined house, a white cross smeared on the boards over the front door.

No.

‘No,’ he demands aloud, shaking his head, backing away. ‘No, not this.’

The Void doesn’t answer.

The river’s black swathe is visible between the burned beams of the house a few doors up, and beside the brazier a middle-aged woman warms her hands, the rest of her bundled in ragged coats against the winter cold. There’s a small pistol tucked into her pocket.

Thomas refuses to look at the tumbledown row of houses; he turns as if transfixed to the sewer grating a few feet away, watching as it begins to lift.

First out is Cecelia, her hair hidden beneath her cap, and the young man who climbs out beside her looks older than he did in his interview, his clothes filthy and a battered sabre hanging at his side. His face pales when he sees the row of empty houses, and Thomas, watching, remembers the way that that expression felt.

‘Oh, shit,’ Cecelia murmurs, and she puts a careful hand on her companion’s shoulder. ‘Remember what we said, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re...’

She trails off, unwilling to say it, but the young man doesn’t reply, tears beading in his eyes. Thomas recalls being unable to speak, the ruin of his parents’ house stealing his voice, and even now there’s a lump in his throat that he can’t shift. A year and a half isn’t enough.

The woman at the brazier narrows her eyes as the two approach the house. ‘You the oldest Thomas boy?’ she asks, and when she gets a nod, she sighs. ‘Thought as much; your mother came to my store from time to time, used to drag you along when you were younger. I’m sorry, lad. They’re all long gone. The house was boarded up two, three weeks ago when the Dead Counters came by.’

Thomas swallows. At the time, he’d wished she hadn’t been there to tell him that, had known it anyway by the cross on the door but had thought that maybe as long as it wasn’t said there might have been room for doubt. He watches as his younger self blinks away tears and grits his jaw.

‘Thank you for telling us,’ Cecelia says to the woman, and she reaches out a hand to her companion’s arm, tugs gently.

Thomas remembers pulling back, ripping his arm from her grasp and turning back to the house; he doesn’t need to see it again. He closes his eyes, listens to the lad kick in the door, the footsteps across the hall floor, the yell of horror (yes, he remembers _that_ all too well, long-dried blood dark across the damp-swollen wall) and wishes to be anywhere but here.

There’s a cold pull on the back of his left hand.

Thomas responds without even thinking about it, turning his mind to the link with Daud to allow himself to be transported to wherever the man needs him. Instead of the usual sensation of being transversed, he’s met with the frayed edges of that torn link, ripping and unravelling inside his head. He shies away from the burnt-blasted feel of it but it reaches out, latches on, inexorable and inescapable.

In the next moment he’s flat on his back, gasping for breath with a familiar hand heavy on his shoulder.

‘Calm now, Thomas,’ Daud’s voice says, his words a quiet rumble. ‘Whatever it was, it wasn’t real; you were having some kind of nightmare. You’re at Kaldwin’s Bridge. You’re safe.’

Thomas opens his eyes, wincing at the bright daylight. There are windows all around the room, just as there were in the Void, except that here, there’s also Daud sitting in a chair by the campbed. He looks tired, but there’s something of a smile on his lips.

Uncertainty floods Thomas; he tries to raise his left arm. Sickness clenches in his throat as the weight of it tells him that the Void was true to life. The shirtsleeve has been cut away, and the remaining length of his upper arm is wrapped tightly in bandages and throbs with pain when he lowers it back to the sheets.

Daud’s hand squeezes his shoulder. ‘Your left hand and lower arm were damaged too badly to save,’ he says bluntly.

There’s a familiar sigh from the other side of the bed, and Thomas looks around to see Cecelia sitting cross-legged on the floor, chin resting on her cupped hands. ‘G’morning, lazybones,’ she says gently, her smile small but sincere. ‘Sokolov tells us he can start work on a prosthetic once you’re up and about, and it can be fitted once you’re healed up.’

‘I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t have a deadly weapon incorporated,’ Daud says dryly.

The thought of that is more than Thomas can grasp; his mind shies away from it. He remembers the square seething with weepers. ‘Ivanov? Roberts?’ he asks tentatively.

‘Hale and hearty,’ Roberts calls from an open doorway before Daud or Cecelia can answer. ‘The beanpole’s watching the roof entrances. He’ll be glad to see you awake.’

 _And so am I_ , Thomas hears, though she doesn’t say it. He considers what he knows through the gentle fog in his head. ‘The Empress?’

Daud frowns at him. ‘Also fine.’

‘And —‘

Thomas’s question is halted by the hand Daud holds up, and the man’s scowl. ‘You've been awake two minutes, and out for three weeks; you need rest, not a full report. Sleep. Someone will be here when you wake.’

Thomas knows from experience that there’s no point arguing once Daud’s voice takes on that particular tone. He nods slowly, and closes his eyes to let sleep take him again.

The Void doesn’t return.


	3. Chapter 3

The room is mostly dark when Thomas wakes again, but the glow of oil lamps sinks down from the study above, along with a voice he vaguely recognises.

‘— an order, just as it wasn’t for the others. She understands he may want nothing to do with her given how things have fallen out.’ Ah. That’s Lady Waverly, calm and quiet. She sounded the same way as she knelt in front of Thomas at Holger Square, her hands cold on his bruised and bloodied face.

‘And how does Lord Attano feel about all this?’ Daud asks. There’s an odd note in his voice.

‘Have you honestly not spoken to Corvo yet?’

‘I’ve - _we’ve_ been busy. Individually.’

There’s a soft snort of laughter from across the room. Thomas raises himself up on his right arm, peers over to the overstuffed armchair in the corner. Cecelia, curled up on the cushion, puts a finger to her lips, looks upwards then cups a hand around her ear, telling him to listen.

Above them there’s a long pause, and a shift in the shadows that suggests there’s been movement.

‘Will you take up his offer?’ Waverly asks.

‘I already—’

‘I’ve not seen you at the Tower _once_ since your people moved into the barracks, Daud. The staff tell me your fire is never lit and your bed is never slept in.’

‘Do you not have other people’s lives to interfere in?’

‘An entire Empire’s now, but a particular interest in yours, since it now appears to be so inextricably linked with the imperial family’s.’

‘Family? So she’ll—’

‘Given the circumstances, it was felt to be appropriate by everyone involved except perhaps Corvo, and frankly it’s about time someone made a decision in that man’s favour, since he’s clearly incapable of doing so himself. Now. Will you come to the Tower tomorrow?’

There’s the creak of a chair, and heavy footsteps move shadows across the room. ‘I will. I’ll talk to Thomas before I leave, see what he intends to do next.’

‘You’ll make it clear that the offer comes with no obligations?’

‘I’ll do my best. You may well turn around one day and find him doing someone’s paperwork though. He doesn’t take well to being idle.’

Cecelia pulls a face in the near dark, and Thomas grimaces. He wouldn’t have to do Daud’s paperwork if the old man actually kept to the system they’d set up together. It’s odd, to hear Daud discussing that with Waverly of all people.

‘He’ll heal up first, or you’ll send him straight back here,’ Waverly’s saying. ‘Sokolov says that as long as he rests and does the exercises, a prosthetic should give him a near-full range of movement and utility.’

‘Yes, Lady Regent,’ Daud murmurs, amusement tingeing his voice.

A flicker of light and a soft thud suggest a thrown cushion. ‘And don’t you forget it,’ Waverly says gently, and then, ‘Why thank you, good sir.’

Two sets of footsteps, and Cecelia makes the Whalers’ signal for retreat and curls up in her chair as the first quiet footfalls reach the top step. Thomas lowers himself to the bed and joins Cecelia in pretending to be asleep, eyelids lowered as he watches Daud and Waverly descend from Sokolov’s workshop. Waverly’s fair hair is haloed in the light from above, and her hand rests lightly on Daud’s bent arm as if he’s escorting her at some kind of dance, rather than wandering around a laboratory in a fallen city at an unearthly hour. The two of them stop at the bottom of the steps and Thomas closes his eyes, shifts as if in sleep to hide the movement.

‘You owe them, you know,’ Waverly murmurs.

‘They’re on the list,’ Daud answers, just as quietly. ‘It’s a long list.’

‘You’re taking this to heart.’

‘People who’ve done the things I’ve done don’t often get second chances.’

There’s the sound of the door opening, and a rustle of cloth. Light floods over Thomas’s closed eyes.

‘People who’ve _paid_ for the things you’ve done, on the other hand, often reap significant rewards. Funny, that,’ Waverly says. Her voice is light, but there’s an edge to it that’s sharper than Thomas would have expected from someone like her.

‘Irrelevant and you know it. I’ll walk you to your carriage.’ The door closes, and the footsteps move off down the corridor.

There’s a rustle of movement when the conversation has faded out of earshot. ‘I didn’t know they were _friends_ ,’ Cecelia murmurs. ‘No wonder Waverly went straight to Daud after we got in touch.’

‘That does explain a few things,’ Thomas agrees. They’d sounded almost _fond_ of each other; he’s never heard Daud speak like that with anyone. Didn’t know Daud really understood the concept of having friends. Still, it’s somehow not surprising that the old assassin keeps such secrets close to his chest. The rest of the conversation catches up with him. ‘What offer were they talking about? And did she say Whalers are staying at the _Tower_?’

Cecelia frowns at him in the near-dark for a few moments, sits up properly and crosses her legs on the seat cushion. ‘Of course, you’ve been out all this time. Emily invited all of Daud’s people to come and live in the Tower, since there’s a lot of free barracks space there after the Plague. The old man’ll be there too.’

‘What does Lord Attano think about that?’ Thomas can’t imagine Attano’s happy at having his lover’s killers bunking down only a few hundred yards from his daughter.

Cecelia’s shrug is barely visible. ‘I think he’s happy to have some allies who aren’t likely to be involved in Tower politics, and the Whalers did save his and Emily’s lives at least twice. And her throne, too.’ She smiles at Thomas, apparently amused by his expression, and stretches. ‘We’re moving up in the world, boyo. And I, for one, need my sleep to deal with it. G’night, Thomas.’

 

When morning comes, Sokolov comes with it in a racket of shouted orders and the cacophony of equipment being swept along a table in the upstairs workshop. Thomas sits up in alarm from a half-doze, wincing as he knocks his injured arm, and is met by the physician’s irate beckoning from the top of the stairs.

‘I have until the ninth bell to instruct you in the proper care of that injury, Mister Thomas, so you’d better get over here.’

There is, at it turns out, a lot to go through, and once Thomas has staggered up to the workshop, his legs stiff and weak from inactivity, Sokolov seats him on a table to demonstrate it. Ivanov appears a few minutes in, mask and coat nowhere to be seen and white-fair hair immaculate, and leans in a corner with an open book that utterly fails to disguise his attention to proceedings. Sokolov whirls through a laundry list of stretching exercises, care instructions, and ominous warnings – all at such a speed that Thomas can’t possibly keep up with it. The physician is barely done talking when he perfunctorily unbuttons Thomas’s shirt, pulls it away from his left side and starts to unwind the bandages with a routine air that suggests that he’s done this many times before.

Sokolov seems to sense Thomas’s question. ‘It was insisted that you receive the best care, even when it was unclear whether you would wake,’ he says. ‘The first few weeks are critical to such an injury, and so despite my myriad other responsibilities, I have bandaged, cleaned, and exercised your residual limb twice a day since the surgery. Now that you are awake, and leaving this facility, you will be expected to look after it yourself, although you may find that you need assistance for some aspects — and if I do not see you once a week I am assured that someone will be tasked to hunt you down and bring you here.’

From his corner, Ivanov raises a nonchalant hand with a smirk. Thomas is too distracted by “residual limb” to respond. That’s it, then; he had two arms before, and now he has an arm and something with so little left of it that it doesn’t even qualify as an arm.

Beneath the bandages is a tightly woven tube, almost like a sock, which Sokolov rolls carefully down and off. Thomas winces at the rush of air against unexpectedly sensitive skin. After a few heartbeats of internal debate, he makes himself look down.

He can’t actually see much, which is both alarming and something of a relief. Where his hand and lower arm should be there’s just an absence, as if there was never anything there before. At his shoulder, the scatter of familiar freckles gives way to a new line of puckered scar tissue leading downwards, maybe a couple of inches above the point where his elbow used to be. A thought bubbles up: he had a scar on the inside of his wrist, where he tripped and fell on a spiked iron railing as a child. He’ll never see that again. It’s odd to think that it’s gone, burned up like so much paper.

To his surprise, Thomas realises that there are still whispers of black trailing up his bare skin, a few last remnants of Daud’s Mark and perhaps the reason the Void felt the need to drag him through his own memories. He closes his eyes and flexes fingers that aren’t there. They tingle slightly, as if he’s been leaning on them for too long.

He glances up to see that Ivanov’s smirk has faded. His friend looks concerned, and when Thomas meets his eyes, his fingers flicker a question. [ _all present and prepared?]_

Thomas is attempting to give the reply before he realises that the fingers he’s using don’t exist: the positive answer would require the left hand. He swallows hard, and nods as Ivanov’s face falls and he gestures an apology.

‘I can still feel the hand,’ Thomas says to Sokolov. He can hear the slight unsteadiness in his voice. The hand. Not _his_ hand, not anymore.

‘Unsurprising,’ Sokolov replies shortly. ‘Entirely normal for a traumatic amputation. The brain still believes that there is a hand there, and is providing the expected feedback. It should fade after a while, when your self-image adjusts. Is there pain?’

Not so much that he can’t deal with it. ‘Not at the moment.’

‘Good. Now, hold still.’

Sokolov’s almost finished when Daud walks into the corridor beyond the workshop, pulling on his right glove. Gloves. Thomas has never thought about whether it’s possible to put a glove on with only one hand. Well, he supposes he’ll find out soon. At least he won’t have to wear them indoors now that his left hand is so effectively removed from view.

Thomas realises that Daud has stopped walking and is looking at him in consternation, and wonders what his expression looks like. Or maybe it’s the stump of his arm: has Daud seen it like this before, its uselessness so clearly visible? Never mind the trivial idiocy of gloves, Thomas realises. What about crossbows, climbing, fighting, even writing? Even a raw recruit refused by the Mark is more useful to Daud than a man with only one arm.

Thomas closes his eyes, makes himself take a deep breath. There’s no use in thinking like that; he’s worth more than just his arm. When he opens his eyes again, Daud is gone. Sokolov starts to rub some kind of ointment into the scarred skin, asks something about pain, and Thomas shakes his head. It hurts, but he’s felt worse and he’s going to have to get used to it.

Ivanov says something in Tyvian. Sokolov looks up, his eyes narrowing, and presses hard against the tender skin. The shock lances up Thomas’s shoulder, and he’s flinched and cried out before he can stop himself.

‘Tell me the truth, boy, and we’ll both be done with this considerably faster,’ Sokolov snaps. He scribbles a note and heads across the office to a cabinet.

[ _attack together_ ] Ivanov signs, shrugging off Thomas’s scowl a little awkwardly. [ _we’ll guard your back_ ]

The Whalers’ signs weren’t exactly made for conversations like this, Thomas reflects, but he’s fairly sure he understands what Ivanov’s saying. It’s not that easy, though - sure, Whalers stick together, but is Thomas even a Whaler anymore? What if he doesn’t choose to go to the Tower? The idea of cringing inside a fortified complex with the rich and so-called noble whilst everyone else suffers the aftereffects of the Plague makes him want to throw up, frankly. He didn’t help Lady Emily because he cared about keeping another spoiled and oblivious Kaldwin on the throne; he did it because of Lord Attano’s threat to his friends. Now, that threat is apparently gone.

As Sokolov returns with a bottle of pills and a glass of water, the door at the base of the stairs opens. Ivanov has a better view of it than Thomas; he signs [ _big knife_ ], and Thomas smiles in thanks for the warning, although it’s a little unnecessary when he can just about see Daud lean against the wall by the door. He’s not entirely sure if he wants to talk now, but it’s not as if he can avoid the man forever. There’s a lot to discuss.

‘Are you done, Anton?’ Daud calls up. ‘I need to talk to Thomas before I leave.’

Sokolov replies something sharp in Tyvian as he shakes a couple of pills from the bottle and thrusts them at Thomas alongside the water glass. Daud laughs; Ivanov looks a little startled. Thomas decides he doesn’t need to know, so he takes his pills and ignores Sokolov’s evaluating look as the physician rewraps the limb, smoothing the shape of it and pulling the fresh bandages tight. It’s constricting enough that for a moment Thomas worries about losing circulation to his fingers, and tries to flex them before he realises how utterly ridiculous that is. He pulls his shirt back on, concentrates on buttoning it one-handed. He wants all the armour he can get for the coming conversation.

‘You will tell me if the pain gets worse,’ Sokolov informs him brusquely. ‘Provided it doesn’t, you are to complete the routines three times a day. You will need to accept help from your colleagues. Once the residual limb has healed sufficiently, we will begin fitting you for an artificial limb.’

Thomas nods, and then remembers what he owes this man. ‘Thank you,’ he manages, although he can’t make himself raise his head from the buttons. ‘For the surgery and everything, not just. Um. This.’ He doesn’t remember anything between screaming in Lord Attano’s grip and waking up yesterday, other than the Void, but he suspects none of it was easy. He knew enough medical students at the Academy to be aware that patients who don’t wake up for the first few days after surgery rarely wake up at all. Suddenly something occurs to him, and he looks up in alarm. ‘Someone’s already told you that I can’t afford to pay you, right?’

Sokolov shrugs dismissively. ‘Your injury saved my employer’s life, provided me with the clue to the Plague cure, and put the Knife of Dunwall in my debt,’ he says. ‘Besides which, I’ve been told to consider it part of my duties as Royal Physician. No payment is necessary except that you take proper care of your limb so that I am not blamed should your negligence cause it to heal incorrectly.’

‘That means your thanks is accepted,’ Daud says drily, coming up the stairs. Sokolov ignores him, nods to Ivanov and leaves, heading for the rooftop. ‘Need a moment with Thomas, Ivanov,’ Daud adds, an eyebrow raised at actually having to ask. Ivanov closes his book hastily as Thomas tries to work out whether he can make it to a chair without falling over, and whether he’ll be able to make it through this conversation without shouting. He doesn’t shout often, doesn’t see the point, but just this once, he thinks, he’s maybe earned it.

When they’re alone, Daud sighs. Thomas refuses to meet his eyes, stares at the wallpaper in the corridor outside.

‘This isn’t going to be easy, is it,’ Daud says heavily.

Thomas becomes aware that his teeth are gritted tight, and tries to sort through the words bubbling in his throat and head. He tries to work out what he’s supposed to say, if he can bear to say anything that might sound acceptable or if the moment he lets his jaw relax he’ll be overtaken by bitter words borne on a tide of fury and fear and _betrayal_. He’s not even sure where most of it’s come from; last night, as Daud and Waverly had discussed his future, he’d only felt a vague reassurance that at least someone was watching out for him. Now, though?

‘At least you still have both arms,’ he bites out, and then manages to snap his mouth shut against everything else that’s demanding to be said. He doesn’t dare look at Daud, but then when there’s no response, he can’t help it.

The old assassin’s still standing at the top of the stairs, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He looks oddly out of place in the blue-black coat he must have borrowed from someone; Thomas wonders dully what happened to the red one.

‘I should have listened to you,’ Daud says finally. ‘After Billie, and Delilah, and the Overseers… I was tired and angry and beginning to think that no matter what I did I’d never do any _good_. And then you came to me and said there was yet another threat, and I should have listened.’

‘Yes. You should have,’ Thomas answers savagely. Daud closes his eyes for a moment before he speaks again. He looks oddly vulnerable, and Thomas can’t help but find a certain satisfaction in that.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, or talk to you when I thought you were working against me. It seemed like my only option at the time; after Billie, I didn’t think I…. Well. I didn’t think. And that might have cost you your arm, and nearly your life. I’m sorry, Thomas.’

Daud falls silent, and Thomas digs his nails into the wood beneath his only remaining hand and wonders what he can possibly be expected to say. There’s too much clamouring for attention in his head; is this Daud saying goodbye? Is he expecting forgiveness? Thomas has been awake for less than twelve hours, most of which have been spent reeling from his injury. He hasn’t had the time to figure out if he forgives anyone yet.

‘What happens if I don’t come to the Tower?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s fairly sure he’s failing.

The change of subject throws Daud off guard; he frowns as if he’s trying to figure out Thomas’s angle. Thomas has no angle, though. He just needs more time. ‘You were awake last night, then,’ Daud surmises, and then, ‘You don’t have to come to the Tower – the others have because it’s safe, and most of them don’t have anywhere else, and Corvo’s offered them employment as a detachment of the Tower Guard, with or without the Mark. It’s not a chance most of them would have had, before. I’ve split our earnings between them, the way we agreed we would when the Plague was over. We’re not taking contracts anymore.’

‘What about you?’ Thomas asks, a little sidetracked from his anger by bemusement at how simple Daud’s making it all sound. The man’s been living outside the law for his entire adult life, after all. Even if Emily provides a pardon, it’s not as if she’ll be in need of an assassin, and he doesn’t exactly have many other skills.

Daud just shrugs. ‘Still working it out. Maybe I’ll retire. I always liked the idea of a vineyard somewhere in the south, where they have real summers instead of slightly warmer rain. Anyway,’ he adds hastily, at Thomas’s sceptical look, ‘this isn’t about me. If you don’t come to the Tower, you get your share of the earnings and we part ways. A fair warning, though: Waverly’s been talking about medals, and Emily’s insisting she sees you at some point, so you might spend more time in the Tower than you expect regardless. I think Attano wanted to talk to you as well.’

Thomas will need assistance with his arm every day, he remembers, and to visit Sokolov every week. Daud’s making it sound as if he has a choice, but he doesn’t. Not really.

Well, if he can’t choose what he does, he can choose when he does it. ‘Are you going there now?’ he asks.

‘Aye…’ Daud answers, looking suspicious.

‘Did anyone bring my clothes from Rudshore?’

‘Ivanov emptied out your locker, I assume with that intention, but–’

Thomas holds up his hand, although he’s a little shocked when Daud actually allows himself to be interrupted. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he says. ‘Give me ten minutes to wash up and put some proper clothes on.’ He rubs at his jaw, and realises to his embarrassment that he has two weeks’ worth of sparse facial hair. No wonder Ivanov was smirking earlier.

‘I’ll tell Ivanov to lend you a razor,’ Daud says blandly, and he turns to leave.

‘Wait,’ Thomas calls. When Daud looks back, Thomas makes himself meet the man’s eyes, and swallows down the bitterness on the back of his tongue. ‘I’m still working this all out,’ he says slowly. ‘Just. I’ll talk when I know what I want to say.’

Daud’s hand lifts from the stair banister as if he intends to move, but drops back. He nods, his expression closed. ‘I’d expect nothing less. I’ll be waiting downstairs.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, suspect this is not going to be as short as I was intending. Sorry >.>


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am rotating updates according to what I can finish at the time >.>
> 
> A note to those familiar with the Whalers - my Whaler names in MA are Not Canon, partly because I started writing this fic before The Corroded Man was released, partly because who even wikis anyway, and partly because you can pry Ivanov and Roberts from my cold dead hands. So all of the kids go by their last names, and whilst you will pick up a first name here and there, they’ll generally continue to do so. As such, when this fic refers to Rinaldo, it my boy Alessandro Rinaldo, who has in the MA universe been with Daud for years, as opposed to canon’s boy Rinaldo Escobar, who’s a novice at this point.
> 
> Warnings for internalised ableism & dissociation in this chapter; Thomas is _not_ dealing well with this whole thing as of yet.

Thomas realises he’s made a mistake when the boat lurches in the Tower water lock and his bandaged arm is trapped for just a moment between his side and Roberts. He presses his lips tight as the dull ache floods into roaring pain, but Ivanov’s sitting opposite him and from the look on the other’s face he might as well have shouted.

‘Shit, sorry,’ Roberts murmurs, shuffling along the shared bench. Thomas hums a note of forgiveness, tightens his grip on the side of the boat and stares at the dark walls. His body wants to shake, to resonate with the pain as if that will somehow reduce it.

Ivanov nudges his leg with a boot tip. ‘That looked—’

‘Just took me by surprise,’ Thomas reassures him, making his voice level. Whatever it was Sokolov gave him for the pain, it’s not working. He’s glad in retrospect that Ivanov insisted on carrying his bag; he’s going to have to be more careful than he anticipated. They folded his shirt and coat sleeves over and pinned them closed, so at least they won’t catch on anything.

‘You’re white as chalk,’ Daud observes from beside Ivanov. His words carry that faint note of disapproval that usually means someone’s about to be sent back to the House.

‘It’s the Morley side, skin’s so pale it makes it look worse than it is,’ Thomas reminds them shortly. ‘Remember when I had that cough last year and you were all convinced I was dying until I took out four novices in the practice room?’ He recalls a little late that he almost passed out afterwards, but then the walls drop away as the boat reaches the top of the lock, and any reply is lost in the process of disembarking and identifying themselves to the Tower Guard. It’s made considerably easier by the presence of Escobar and Fleet, even if they’re both clearly trying not to stare at Thomas’s arm.

Daud pulls Ivanov aside once they’re past the guards, and Roberts claps Thomas on his good shoulder and heads off to the massive building that must be the Tower itself. Thomas waits a polite distance away from Daud and Ivanov, looking up at the gazebo that’s as far into the Dunwall Tower grounds as he’s ever been. He remembers standing in the centre of it, holding the tethering on the Lord Protector as Daud finished the job, Billie already safely away with Emily. It’s difficult to believe that less than a year later, the Tower Guard are watching calmly as the Empress’s assassins murmur to each other in plain sight.

They don’t talk long, and when they’re done Daud raises a hand to Thomas in farewell. ‘I’m under instructions to go and find the Regent. Ivanov will get you settled in.’

The rest of the morning passes in a haze of introductions and unfamiliar buildings, every new person pretending not to stare at the empty sleeve folded closed. The familiar faces are almost worse: Cooper doesn’t even look Thomas in the face until Ivanov clears his throat, and even then his eyes seem drawn back at the end of every sentence he speaks. Ivanov does his best to keep the tour short, but by the time Thomas escapes, he’s exhausted from both the pain and the effort of remembering everything. He retreats to the first place he was shown, sits down on the edge of his assigned bed in the dim light of the winter afternoon. He’s been placed with the remaining Whalers in an old barracks block, beds and lockers lining both sides of the main room and a massive skylight in the ceiling that carries the sound of the rain everywhere in the building. There are twenty-four beds that have obviously been claimed, and Thomas wonders who else left in the weeks that he was dead to the world. Rinaldo’s apparently taken over as Daud’s second for the time being, and no one seems to know when (if) Thomas will step back into the role. Least of all Thomas himself.

Unstrapping industrial boots, it turns out, is a considerably more difficult task with only one hand. By the time Thomas has managed to wrench them both off, he’s gritting his jaw hard, too aware that his hand is shaking and his eyes are hot, tears spilling onto his cheeks. He lies down on top of the rough wool blanket, curled onto his right side, and stares at the stonework of the far wall, trying not to think. His left arm aches in time with his too-fast heartbeat, right down to the fingertips, and the shaking moves on to his entire body as he lets himself cry.

The sounds of the Tower yard continue around him, only a little muffled by the thud of the rain onto the glass roof; he’s vaguely aware of the slow passes of guard patrols, the shuddering roll of carriages and carts through the main gate, the rushing of the water lock. The sky outside darkens to grey, swathing the room in shadows, and it might be the rain or the afternoon giving way to early evening.

The door opens behind him, letting in a shocking rush of cold air and noise. It shuts again quickly, and the newcomer stamps their boots by the door, then falls silent.

‘Thomas? Are you awake?’

It’s Ivanov, his voice barely carrying over the rain. Thomas considers not answering, but Ivanov’s mind is as sharp as his eyes.

‘Yeah,’ he says, and winces when the words are rough with sleep and dehydration.

Ivanov hesitates before replying. ‘Do you want me to leave? The Lady Chancellor is wanting to talk with you, but she says that it is “at your convenience”, so she can wait.’

Thomas can’t help a quiet snort of amusement, although it’s quickly swallowed by the heaviness in his head. ‘That’s not what that means when Dunwall nobles say it.’

‘Fortunately, Tyvian exchange students are excused if they fail to understand this,’ Ivanov answers confidently, and his boots squeal against the floorboards as he approaches. ‘Three times every day, Dr Sokolov said. Sit up and we will get this done.’

It’s best to get it over with, Thomas tells himself. Ivanov’s been considerate, coming to find him like this, and he should repay the consideration by going through the exercises Ivanov’s here to help him with. Only, the room is cold and open and unfamiliar, and Thomas’s left arm is a constant low pain that he doesn’t want to disturb, and he’s not sure he remembers what exercises to do (and how humiliating to have to ask Ivanov how to look after the useless remains of his own body).

Thomas realises he’s curled in on himself, as if Ivanov will go away if he ignores him. As if that’s ever worked. Ivanov is waiting, but after a few seconds, Thomas hears the easing of springs as he sits on the next bed. There are words Thomas should be saying, he knows, but whatever they are they escape him.

‘Rinaldo heard Lady Waverly and Lord Attano discussing you,’ Ivanov says eventually. ‘Waverly is considering making you a ward of the Empire, if you will consent to it.’

What, Thomas wonders, has he done to deserve that, other than throw himself headlong into things that don’t concern him? ‘It must be nice, being able to offer titles instead of apologies,’ he mutters. ‘What a shame I’m crippled so she can’t offer me a job as well.’

‘I believe she means to apologise before the offer is made,’ Ivanov answers, and there’s that careful diffidence that Thomas is beginning to hate, as if he’s too broken to disagree with.

Ivanov is his friend, Thomas reminds himself sternly, and he’s just found Thomas near-sobbing alone on his bed. Some caution is entirely reasonable, and no cause for Thomas’s jaw to clench so tightly that it aches. He makes himself uncurl, sits up, looks at Ivanov and manages not to snarl at the understanding in his friend’s eyes.

‘Sorry,’ he says quietly. Ivanov just nods. Thomas shrugs off his coat, unbuttons his shirt and shifts over so that they can begin the exercises. Ivanov comes over with a notebook in hand, flips it open to the first page and places it on the bed in front of them. He’s numbered and detailed the exercises, and someone — not Ivanov, Thomas knows for a fact that he can’t draw — has illustrated each one with careful anatomical diagrams, the relevant muscles drawn in green ink.

‘Roberts had many dull stakeouts when you were sleeping, and was delighted to put her medical training to use,’ Ivanov explains. ‘Hold still and I will undo your bandages.’

Thomas nods, and does as he’s told, and wonders if maybe, possibly, he might get through this.

The exercises make him ache, and some of them don’t even seem to have anything to do with his arm, but when he complains Ivanov just shrugs and waits for him to continue. The man has the patience of a rock. They’re almost done, Ivanov rewinding the bandages, when the door opens again and Rinaldo ducks inside, shaking rain out of his dark curls. He looks at them both, taking in Thomas’s shirtless state and raising an eyebrow.

‘You boys want some privacy?’ he asks, grinning, and he half-turns back to the door as if to leave.

‘I do like to give a show,’ Ivanov replies with a smirk, but Thomas is fairly sure that the way he moves to face Rinaldo deliberately obscures Thomas’s shoulder from view.

Rinaldo shakes his head in amusement, and his eyes shift to Thomas’s face without a hitch. ‘The old man says Waverly’s heading to a Council meeting in half an hour, and wants to see you before then in the Rhydderch Chamber “if you’re available”.’

It almost sounds as if she’s giving him an option, Thomas reflects. Of course, that’s just the way people like her talk; why give orders when they know they’ll get what they want anyway? It speaks volumes that when Ivanov didn’t return, she sent Rinaldo.

He makes a decision, and shrugs at Rinaldo. ‘You couldn’t find me.’

Rinaldo glances at Ivanov before his answering nod, his expression a little too assessing. ‘Searched up and down the Tower, every courtyard and crenellation, you must’ve ducked out,’ he agrees, with a careful lightness to his tone that itches at Thomas’s renewed composure. ‘I wonder if her Ladyship’s ever been made to cool her heels by a commoner before.’

‘New experiences for everyone,’ Thomas suggests tightly, and Rinaldo snorts in amusement.

There’s a heavy sigh from Ivanov as he finishes the bandages and it cuts through the tension hanging in the air. ‘Please do not make the Lady Regent your enemy. I wonder if she is more dangerous than she seems.’

‘Undoubtedly, if she’s got the old man giving summonses for her,’ Rinaldo agrees, although he’s already turning to leave. ‘Still, she doesn’t seem the type to play her hand this early, and if she really values Tommy’s contribution to this whole affair then she’ll wait until he’s been out of his hospital bed for more than half a day.’

He’s gone without another word, the door swinging shut on the cascading rain. Thomas wonders if they’ll all be playing politics by the time the month is out, stuck calculating slights and honours in this damn Tower whilst Dunwall burns.

Ivanov is shaking his head, but he holds Thomas’s shirt out, moving to the other bed so that he has space to put it on. ‘She will send someone who is not one of us sooner or later,’ he warns. ‘Would it be so bad, to speak to her? I doubt she means to harm you.’

It’s simple enough to absorb himself in pulling the shirt on, adjusting it over his shoulders and easing the buttons into their holes. ‘I’ll speak to her tomorrow,’ Thomas decides. Not now, with the winter afternoon descending into evening and his mind full with introductions and stupid longings.

‘And what will you say to her offer?’

For a few moments he has no idea what Ivanov’s referring to, but then he remembers. ‘If she even makes it,’ he says sceptically. ‘She doesn’t get anything from it, and anyway imperial wardship’s for children, orphaned nobles and geniuses, not adult one-armed criminals.’ Not that he’s been an adult by Dunwall legal standards for more than a couple of years, but that’s hardly relevant. He has nothing that Waverly could possibly want.

The look that Ivanov gives him makes it very clear that his friend disagrees, but he doesn’t say anything further so Thomas pretends the subject is closed.

That evening the rainstorm beats a deafening chorus on the glass roof, the low clouds reflecting ratlights instead of moonlight. Thomas lies awake long after the last of the shutters are drawn and the candles blown out, staring up at the thundering rain as if it’ll distract him from the need to stretch the fingers on his left hand, to massage pins and needles from an arm that no longer exists. His eyes are dry and aching when the rain starts to clear at some obscene hour of the morning, but sleep refuses to come.

Finally he gives up, gets dressed in the near-dark whilst wishing he could still use the light of the Void to see by. He gives up on his boots, opting for bare feet rather than ruining good wool stockings, and lets himself out with the key Rinaldo left by the door.

The Tower grounds are sodden and full of shadows, puddles shining in the glow of the ratlights and water dripping from the temporary battlements. Thomas pulls his arms close around himself, wishing he’d taken the extra time to wrestle his coat on, and wanders through what must once have been ornamental gardens, passing a couple of guards who nod to him as if nocturnal one-armed men are entirely normal here. The lighting has clearly been designed by someone who thinks nothing of using rooftops and ledges as pathways; he finds himself instinctively plotting infiltration routes through the courtyards laid out before him, and every one ends in a guard patrol or an impassable drop or height. Of course, Attano’s been in the Tower for a couple of months now, and more or less running the place from the intelligence Thomas had picked up before Morley Square. It’s hardly surprising that he’s made an effort to ensure that someone like him – or, Thomas recalls with a shudder, like Delilah – would find the place inaccessible.

It’s only when he finds a wide flight of steps in front of him that he realises exactly where he’s wandered. Another fifty paces and he’ll be standing beneath the pale marble gazebo, just where he was when they killed the Empress.

He takes those fifty paces, and looks out over the shimmering dark of the Wrenhaven, the river mouth wide and speckled with lights. He didn’t even notice it that day, his head full of avenues of retreat as he held Attano at bay so that Daud could get a clear attack. It would have shimmered with sunlight then – he remembers being very much aware of the bright sun, careful not to get at an angle where it might blind him.

It’s difficult to believe that it’s not even been a year since he stood here and watched Daud assassinate the Empress; even more fantastical to recall that maybe a year before that, he was studying politics and history at the Academy. Thomas tries to imagine where he’ll be next year, but even next week feels utterly inaccessible.

He watches the river instead, the ever-shifting lights and the movement of the wind across the water, and lets his awareness drift so that the Tower grounds behind him sink away and out of mind. When he was a child, he used to sit on the path above the river for hours at a time, watching the water wash in and out, the debris of land and sea rolling up onto the narrow gravel strip that appeared at low tide. It’s not quite the same from the cliff heights of the Tower, even when he walks to the edge and lowers himself to the marble to watch through the balustrade, but it’s close enough for now. Even with the pain in his arm acting as a reminder of everything that’s happened, being alone with the light glinting off the water feels a little like home, a little like safety.

Like those things, it doesn’t last.

The approaching footsteps are soft, and familiar – that particular tread of someone who’s used to quiet movement actually trying to make themselves heard, the steps too precise to be anything but deliberate. Anyway, no one but Daud would be awake at this hour and assuming Thomas wants company. Thomas doesn’t move, because if shouting at the old man doesn’t make him go away, maybe ignoring him will. And he thinks that maybe it starts to work, because the footsteps stop at the far side of the gazebo, except then the newcomer speaks, and it isn’t Daud.

‘I should thank you for pulling me away from my desk.’ The voice is Attano’s, dry and perhaps a little relieved. ‘I had a half-panicked guard in my study informing me that one of the Whalers was out at night. She didn’t bother to mention that it was you.’

Because of course, it’s not as if Thomas is a threat, one-armed and unmarked. He considers standing to greet the Lord Protector, but he’s got what he needed from Attano, hasn’t he? Besides, that was hardly the greeting of someone expecting to be grovelled to. He keeps his eyes on the river, doesn’t bother saying anything. What could work on Daud might work on Attano too.

The footsteps move closer, and then stop a few paces away, and when Attano speaks again there’s a sharp edge ringing through his words. ‘Thomas? You’re shivering – how long have you been out here?’

Thomas… honestly couldn’t begin to guess. He hadn’t really noticed the cold, but now Attano’s drawn his attention to it, he can’t seem to notice anything else. The stone is like ice, and what remains of the rain is seeping through his thin shirt and trousers, pooling around his bare feet.

Warmth falls heavy around his shoulders, more gently on his left, and he glances slowly down to see the golden trim of the Lord Protector’s collar at his chest. Attano himself crouches down a couple of feet away in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and reaches out a gloved hand. ‘Thomas?’ he asks quietly. ‘Ah, I don’t actually know your given name… look, I’m not sure what’s going on, but you need to come inside before you make yourself ill.’

Thomas looks blankly at the offered hand, his eyes following the neat stitching barely visible in the low light. Attano moves closer, slow and careful, and when he takes Thomas’s hand and pulls him to his feet, it seems the reasonable course to go along with him. They walk together, and at some point there are voices as Attano speaks to someone, and then warmth and the softness of thick carpet and yellow lamplight, the hush of an empty hallway and the sweep of an opening door.

‘Thomas?’ That’s Attano again, and somewhere behind him the hiss and flicker of a fireplace. ‘There are chairs by the fire – sit down, get warmed up. I’ve sent down for something hot to drink.’ He hesitates then, watching Thomas, and then moves to sit behind a desk piled high with folders and letters. ‘Take your time. You’re not keeping me up, I have plenty of paperwork to do.’

A full-body shiver reminds Thomas that his damp clothes are clinging uncomfortably. He doesn’t remember the way back to the barracks, and anyway he can’t exactly walk out on the Lord Protector, so he forces himself to move towards the hearth. The chairs Attano’s gestured to look as if each of them could easily have cost the same as Thomas’s entire house; he stands instead, basking in the warmth and crackle of the fire. Behind him, the scratch of a pen starts up, alternates with the rhythmic slide of papers as Attano leafs through something, writing notes as he goes. There are two whiskey glasses on the mantelpiece, both recently empty. The oil painting that rises above them is of what must be a Serkonan bay, bright with sun and sparkling sea, hills rising steep behind a sprawled city.

A knock sounds at the open door, and Attano pushes his chair back from the desk and moves to take a rattling tray from someone, thanking them quietly and closing the door behind them.

‘You’re welcome to leave whenever you want,’ he says then, ‘but I’d suggest you warm up first – it’s raining again, and I’m not sure how long you were out there.’ He walks past Thomas to place the tray on a side-table, straightens up and turns back to face him.

‘Why do you care?’ Thomas finds himself saying, his eyes firmly on the painted skyline. ‘I can’t be of any use to you. I’m barely of any use to myself.’

‘You’re barely a day out of bed after a surgery that nearly killed you, so I’m not much surprised by that,’ Attano answers ruefully, and his pleasant tone makes Thomas look at him in confusion. ‘As for you being of use to me, not that I’m particularly fond of thinking about people in that way – you took a bullet and lost your arm for the Empress, Thomas. If you were a guard, you’d be retiring with a medal and a full pension. Since you’re not, we’re having to do things a little differently.’

‘Imperial wardship?’ Thomas asks, a curl of irritation to it that he can’t shake.

Attano sighs, hands him a warm mug that smells deliciously of cider and spices, and takes one for himself before sitting down. Thomas follows awkwardly, holding the mug to his chest to steady it as he takes the other chair.

‘You heard that, then,’ Attano says, sipping his drink. ‘This wouldn’t be the hour I’d choose for it, but if it’s bothering you, maybe I should explain a few things.’

‘I’d… appreciate that, Lord Protector,’ Thomas says cautiously.

Attano smiles, leans back in his chair. ‘Until and unless you choose to seek employment at the Tower, you’re a guest of Emily’s, and just Corvo is fine. Now. Let’s talk.’

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always welcome encouragement. If you want to give me a prompt or ramble about meta, poke me on [tumblr](http://intentandinvention.tumblr.com)!


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